These days, she rarely had nightmares. At her golden age, she had seen so much, done so much, that few things frightened her any more. She had achieved a level of hard-won, quiet calm that typically followed her from her waking hours into the deepest depths of her sleep.

But not that time.

The dream had been so vivid that she could clearly recall the sensation of something pressing against her face, cutting off her airflow, and her lungs feeling as if they were about to rupture like cheap balloons.

The memory of it was so real she could literally still feel the impression that the obstructing object had left on her face. Like a . . . pillow.

The bedroom was dark, the only light coming from the greenish numerals of the clock on the nightstand. She reached for the lamp on the nightstand, pushed the switch. The light blazed on.

Pat let out a yelp of surprise.

She wasn’t alone: Grace sat in the upholstered chair beside the bed. She wore purple pajamas and that horrid gray pageboy wig. She watched Pat quietly, her eyes glimmering, deep as wells.

Grace’s hands rested on a thick bed pillow that lay across her lap.

Pat’s gaze lingered on that pillow. Fear spread like foul smoke through every corner of her mind.

“What’re you doing in here?” Pat asked. Her voice was thick.

“I thought you were having a nightmare. You were crying out as if under assault. I came to check on you.”

Pat fumbled on her glasses. The room shifted into tighter focus. She read the bedside clock: it was a few minutes past two in the morning.

“Are you better, dear?” Grace asked. “Want me to fetch you a glass of cold water? Perhaps some warm milk?”

Although Grace used words that made it sound as if she were concerned for Pat’s welfare, her eyes were as flat as a doll’s. She seemed merely to be going through the motions of displaying empathy.

“I’m fine.” Pat threw aside the covers. “You can go back to bed. I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Sleep well, dear.” Grace rose from the chair, dropping the pillow onto the seat cushion. “See you in the morning.”

“Wait a minute.” Pat glanced around the room. “Have you seen Duchess? She was in here when I went to sleep.”

“I’m not the keeper of that animal. You were.”

“She must have gone back to Monica then,” Pat said.

“Perhaps.” Grace strode out of the room, hips swaying. After she had gone, Pat released a pent-up breath.

That strange woman had gotten under her skin. How long had she been sitting there in the dark, watching Pat sleep? Who did such a thing?

Had she pressed that pillow against my face?